


THE WILL OF FIRE WILL BURN, AND YET YOU'LL SUFFOCATE

by Nindroid



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Animal Death, Demons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nindroid/pseuds/Nindroid
Summary: John Wick made a deal. A deal he wanted to break. The pact cannot be broken, the terms have merely changed.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	THE WILL OF FIRE WILL BURN, AND YET YOU'LL SUFFOCATE

One would think after all these years, death would be no stranger to John Wick. And it wasn’t, not really. But there was a shift in the paradigm. This was not a kind of death he had encountered before. John felt his heart go soft, felt the armor he had constructed on his body since the day he was born, crack, and that was enough. 

_“Are you sure about this, Jonathan? I feel like I have to remind you that contracts of this nature can’t simply be_ undone _. There will be repercussions.”_

_“I know. I have to do this. Please…”_

_“Very well…”_

His eyes burned with bright yellow fire as he coughed up the blood that had gathered in his throat when his breath came back, and he felt control return to his body, the fire in his eyes subsiding. As he blinked to clear them, he was faced with the crushing weight of reality. 

From the floor and the pool of his own blood, he reached out, desperate, and felt soft fur that now was slick with blood. It almost didn’t register at first. In his head, he tried to deny it. She looked so peaceful, there was no way something horrible had befallen her. But he couldn’t feel her breath.

John felt a burning rise in his throat, eyes lifting to see that by the crimson streaked against the hardwood, Daisy had spent her last moments pulling herself to him. The burning rose higher and hotter, into his eyes and nose, a sensation he had spent so many years of his life training himself out of. 

And he cried. 

He brought Daisy’s small, limp body close to him, put his nose into the top of her head, and cried, tears wetting her fur and mixing with their blood. 

_A thousand deaths is never enough, Mr. Wick. Will you ever get yours?_

* * *

John’s hands felt cold against the handle of the shovel. He could feel blood against his brow from a wound he thought he dressed, but came undone with sweat. As he laid the last shovelful of dirt over the final resting place of his companion, he felt almost a physical change within him, the rest of his body going freezing cold. 

He felt grief again. Real, true grief that clawed at his soul, at his very being, dragging him down to somewhere he didn’t even have the pleasure of going to. 

There was part of him that wanted to try. A final selfish act. But he knew. 

No matter what, he would never see Helen or Daisy again.

He tasted sulfur on his lips, felt his fingers twitch, and he moved back inside to see what he was left with. 

On his hands and knees, he scrubbed his and Daisy’s blood from the floor, and he felt his grip become vice-like around the brush, his knuckles going white as his lips curled in a silent snarl. 

John lifted his head from his work as he realized he was fit to gouge into the floor with the force he was applying, rolling his shoulders back and rising to his feet. 

He surveyed the rest of his house as a fury rose inside him, finding exactly what he expected in the garage. His Mustang gone, and his wife’s four-door with a baseball bat through the windshield. His jaw set and his teeth felt too big for his mouth, but he squared his shoulders, threw his jacket on, and knew he had a bus to catch.

* * *

Aurelio knew exactly what was about to come through that door. There was almost an eerie stillness to the air that he knew preceded only one man. He almost didn’t believe it, but if anyone could have faked their death that well, it would’ve been John Wick. 

John rounded a shelving array, a specter of death, sending a small shock down Aurelio’s spine as they made eye contact. Of course he was still alive. The mechanic shifted a bit, seeing John look and survey the scene as he sat on a stool leaning against the hood of a car, a bottle of Peligroso accompanied by two glasses set before him. 

A knowing silence hung between them for a good bit as John slowly sat down in the stool opposite the other.

“Is it here?” John’s voice grated. He was tired, this Aurelio knew, and it was even more evident by the slightly black blood on the white shirt just barely hidden beneath the ex-hitman’s jacket. 

Aurelio shifted a bit, pulling the stopper from the bottle of tequila and pouring John a glass, setting the bottle back down and shifting back. “No.” He took a swing from his own glass. “But it was. Iosef Tarasov nicked it.” 

“Viggo’s son?”

A hard swallow. “...Yeah. I told ‘em to fuck off. I don’t play with that shit.”

John made a small noise from the back of his throat, leaning back and turning his gaze away.

“So what’re you gonna do? I mean… you’re a ghost, right?” The mechanic asked after a moment. 

He looked back, then down at the glass, finally lifting it to his lips and taking a long drink from it. “I need a ride.”

* * *

If Iosef knew one thing, it was how to make the douchiest entrance. He sauntered into the building, a smug look on his face, heading towards where his father was at behind the bar, pouring himself a double shot, accompanied by his counselor, Avi.

“How was your trip, kid?” Avi asked from where he was leaning against the bar.

“We won't be hearing from them anytime soon. Or ever,” Iosef snorted.

Viggo glanced up after pouring a second glass, putting the bottle down and sauntering over to his son with both glasses in hand. He didn’t speak for a long drag of time, Iosef even stepped back a bit as his father loomed over him, before offering him one of the glasses and his own to tap them together. Iosef immediately seemed to relax, nodding and downing his drink.

“That's a nice jacket.” Viggo finally broke the silence after a considerable stretch of time as he sat his glass down and turned to face the other. 

“...Thanks.”

“Yeah…” The older man lifted a hand to inspect the lapels of the jacket in question, before hauling back and driving his fist into Iosef’s stomach, who promptly doubled over and sunk to the ground, spitting up his drink.

He moved around behind the bar again, grabbing a towel and tossing it half-assed to the other as he retched on the floor. “ _Clean that up,_ ” he demanded in Russian.

“Should I go?” Avi spoke after a moment, taking a half step backwards and gesturing behind him. 

Viggo grunted as he removed his blazer, rolling up one of his sleeves and huffing something barely audible in Russian. 

“Viggo, speak up, please. Come on.”

“Stay, goddamn it!” He barked.

“What did I do?” Iosef garbled from his position on the floor.

“ _You fucked up._ ” 

“We did what you asked! No one saw shit!”

Viggo looked like he was about to kick Iosef while he was down, huffing something furious before reaching down and hoisting the boy up by his arms and shaking him slightly. “I'm not talking about Atlantic City.”

“What then? You mean Aurelio's? So I stole a fucking car!”

He reeled back and drove his fist into Iosef’s stomach once more.

Avi jumped a bit at Iosef’s pained grunt from the impact. “Aw, fuck, Viggo!”

The older Russian pointed harshly to him as he drew back. “You stay!” 

Shifting in place, he gave a nod of acknowledgement, holding his hands out a bit to show compliance. Viggo let out a breath as he moved back behind the bar again, pulling his blazer back on and reaching behind him to grab a different bottle. 

“It’s not what you did, son, that angers me so.” He sighed as he started to pour himself another drink. “It’s who you did it to.”

Iosef was still trying to catch his breath from the floor, stammering as he spoke again. “Who? That fuckin’ nobody?” 

Viggo’s lip twitched a bit. “That ‘fuckin’ nobody’… is _John Wick_.” 

His eyes traveled forward shoulders set as he raised his glass to his lips and downed it. After a moment, he strode forward and rounded the bar behind Avi, focusing once again on his son. “He once was an associate of ours. They call him the _bies_.”

Iosef huffed as he slowly got to his feet, somewhat skeptical of his father’s words but still aware of the graveness of his tone. “The devil?”

“Well, John wasn't exactly the devil. He was the one you sent to kill the fucking devil.”

It set in. “…Oh.”

“John is a man of focus… commitment… sheer will.” Viggo had moved now so that he stood face-to-face with the other. “Something you know very little about. I once saw him kill three men in a bar… with a pencil. With a fuckin' _pencil_.”

The older Russian rolled his shoulders as he stepped back and straightened out, striding over towards Avi who stood exasperated and rubbing his forehead. Viggo dramatically mimed stabbing the other in the neck, making a sound with his mouth, to which the other rolled his eyes and took a drag from his cigarette. 

“Then suddenly one day, he asked to leave.” He stood once again behind the bar, grabbing his glass and pouring himself another drink. “It was over a woman, of course. So I made a deal with him. A unique task, considering the… nature of his contract. I gave him a job no one could have pulled off.” He took a drink. “The bodies he buried that day… laid the foundation of what we are now. A thousand lives for his, but he must then suffer them himself.”

Viggo stepped forward again to address Iosef directly. “Had I realized it was you who would’ve enacted it, I would’ve chosen my words more carefully. So now you, my son, a few days after his wife died, you steal his car… and kill his fuckin' dog.”

Iosef’s heart began to race, fists clenched at his sides as he stepped after his father that turned to leave. “Father, I can make this right!”

“Wh- Oh?” He looked back, curiosity piqued. “How do you plan that?”

The younger boy swallowed hard. “By finishing what I started.”

Viggo looked back at Avi for a second, anger rising up. “What the fu– Did he hear a fucking word I said?”

Iosef moved forward again once more, addressing his father in Russian this time. “ _Dad, I can do this! Please!_ ”

He looked back, shifting his feet as he raised his arms and brought his son closer into a hug. “Iosef, losef, listen.” Viggo’s hand found the back of Iosef’s neck, holding on as he pulled in a breath and closed his eyes, almost pained. “John will come for you. And you will do nothing… because you can do nothing. So get the _fuck_ out of my sight.”

* * *

John felt a unique sense of an almost… somber feeling as he pulled the car borrowed from Aurelio up to the front steps of an all too familiar building. As he put the car in park, he realized he’d been white-knuckling the steering wheel almost the entire drive, his jaw locked to boot, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and relax as he stared ahead. 

Slowly, he managed to get his body to move, which he also didn’t realize was a feat in and of itself until he tried it, getting out of the car, popping the trunk, and pulling out his bags, before handing the keys to the valet with a nod as he stepped inside. 

The atmosphere of the Hotel Continental almost immediately sunk into his skin, down to his bones, and John found his jaw locking up again as he crossed the threshold. It was meant to be a “safe haven” of sorts to… his kind, but now it felt like anything but. The room would hold its breath if anyone so much as whispered his name here. 

Stepping up towards reception, the only calming thing about the lobby currently was the familiar face behind the desk, but the one in front offset it immediately. 

“Room 918. Do enjoy your stay,” Charon spoke as calm as ever, handing off the room key to the woman before him. 

She took it with a small, “Thanks,” and as she turned to leave her eyes locked with John’s and a strange mix of what seemed like confusion, but also smug satisfaction, crossed her expression. 

“Well, look who it is. John fuckin’ Wick.”

“Ms. Perkins.” John felt a slight twitch in his lips as he spoke her name. 

“I thought you died.” 

“Yeah,” he met her eyes again for a brief moment. _A few times._ “I got over it.” 

“Good seeing you again.” She flashed him a sly smile, pulling her bag further up her shoulder as she moved passed him and left without another word. 

John rolled his shoulders back, stepping forwards and lifting his gaze as Charon addressed him now. 

“I have you for two nights.”

He nodded, shifting his feet a bit. “Depending on business it may be more.” 

“Of course, sir.”

John found his gaze wandering a bit, rocking back on his heels as he tried to fully relax a bit more. “So when did the old place get a face lift?”

He glanced up at him. “Around four years ago. But I assure you, sir, she really hasn't changed much.”

“Same owner?”

“Same owner.”

John shifted as he reached into his pocket, producing a coin from it and sliding it across the desk.

“Room 818.” Charon handed John the key over the table after pocketing the coin, a slight smile playing across his lips as he took it. “And, as always, it is a pleasure having you with us again, Mr. Wick.”

* * *

Blue and red neon surrounded him as he stepped through the door into the bathhouse proper. Winston had tipped him off to this place, and some… gentle persuasion proved the information correct. Iosef was hiding in the Red Circle. All emotion faded away into nothing but sheer focus, the music and the sounds of the patrons washing over him and rolling off. 

Through the glass partition, his eyes found their focus and locked onto Iosef, champagne flute in hand, chest-deep in the water with a few women, and clearly drunk. 

John moved slowly, methodical, gaze never leaving him as he circled like a predator observing prey. And that’s exactly what he was. 

Dispatching one of the guards barely made him lift a finger as he circled to get around the partition, blood painting the frosted glass as his knife struck an artery and the man fell back against it, sliding down. 

The next was something of the same. Hidden behind a pillar, this was more discrete. The man turned after speaking into his earpiece, seeing John, and as soon as he opened his mouth, John had his hand over it, driving his blade into his stomach. He grabbed John’s arm in a wide-eyed panic, and John withdrew, threw his grip off, struck him with the opposite arm in the throat, and drove the blade up under the bodyguard’s chin, covering his mouth again beforehand and following him to the ground, unblinking, as his body went limp. 

From here, his path seemed clear. Through a rack of towels he was able to still see Iosef and his focus narrowed once more. Too much, though. A door opened behind him and he was too late to catch it, the guard jumping and reaching for his gun with John just barely able to stop him from firing a shot, knife poised in front of the other’s face and pushing forward but stopped by his arm. 

Not fast enough. Rusty. John gritted his teeth and tried to throw the other’s arm away to get another stab in, but in doing so opened himself up and he felt the impact into his stomach as he was tackled through the shelf and hit the floor. 

With his cover blown, drawing his gun was the next logical step, struggling a bit with the man who tackled him and managing to flip him over his back and pin him with his knees, finally getting his Glock 26 and firing three shots into another bodyguard coming towards him down the hall. 

Fire burned in his chest again, and he felt like he could smell the blood more clearly than before, turning his gaze towards Iosef now and staring him down, unfaltering, down the barrel of his gun and drinking in the fear that filled Iosef’s eyes like sweet wine. 

Not breaking eye contact, his eyes flared a fiery yellow as he turned his gun down and fired a single shot through the skull of the bodyguard he was still holding down and rising to his feet as the air around him grew cold. 

John strode forward, lip curling slightly as his gaze never broke from his prey. Another man, large and muscular, a patron of the bathhouse rather than a hired guard, rose up before him and tried to intervene. John responded impatiently by swiftly driving his knife into the other man’s shoulder, stomping down on his bare foot to get him to let go of him, and firing four shots into him. Three to the chest, one to the head. He wasn’t letting Iosef get away. 

He was a shark in the water, and he smelled blood. 

Iosef ran, hastily throwing a towel on around his waist and grabbing one of the women he passed to hold in front of himself. John’s finger hovered on the trigger, but he couldn’t fire until the other let go, so he holstered his gun, flipping his jacket back to draw the next one from where it was tucked into the back of his belt, honing in on Iosef as he ran past one of the glass partitions. 

The world narrowed. John felt his spine bristle. One shot. Two. Three. Glass splintered and shattered in a sparkling display from the surrounding neon. Four. Iosef cleared the partition now. Five. All misses. John snarled and hunched his shoulders. A shot rang out from behind him and he whipped around to return fire, ducking behind a stone ledge that held some candles for cover. 

Gritting his teeth he waits for an opening and fires a few more shots into the one who pinned him there, hoisting himself up and booking it towards the stairs he saw Iosef flee up, fire two shots into another bodyguard coming down towards him. 

The sound and the lights were almost overwhelming, but it was almost as though he could feel the flow of the crowd of people around him as his eyes followed Iosef’s every frantic movement. 

John’s spine bristled, fingers twitched, and he felt his blood and breath run cold and his eyes burned yellow. It was almost a rare sight in and of itself, seeing him even express any emotion at all on the job, even if it was anger. Throughout John’s years, he had never so much as even curled his lip at a target, yet here he was, letting the infernal pact he had made seep through the cracks into a brief flash of sharp teeth as Iosef looked back at him, panicked, through the crowd. 

Everything around him blurred and narrowed into nothing but his target, and he felt something tighten and rise in his chest, smelled Iosef’s blood before it had even been spilled, searching every moment, every second to find his shot. John was heartless, he wouldn’t dispute that, but he didn’t do collateral damage.

He didn’t even have to turn to look right away when more of Iosef’s bodyguards came after him. He lifted his gun before they could even react. One, two. The barrel presses against the other man’s chest. One, two, three, four. A snarl as his gaze flicked back and he fired a final shot into the previous guard’s head. 

John worked his way through the rest of the crowd, searching somewhat frantically and soon finding Iosef clambering up another set of stairs leading to the upper balcony in the back.

This song and dance was like clockwork to him now. Viggo could throw as many men as he wanted at him to protect Iosef and John wouldn’t bat an eye, he would tear through everything until Iosef was bleeding at his feet. He pushes through a door, hearing the panicked voice of Iosef for a moment and the bodyguards radioing each other to alert them of his presence. 

A smirk played on his lips for just a moment before he was faced with more goons. Two shots to the stomach. Another to the head. Dodging a shot to himself, grabbing a wrist and flipping him over his knee, shot to the head. Firing on the next, just barely missing but causing him to stagger back, firing again and grunting at the click of the empty magazine, slamming the butt of the gun into the guard’s throat to stun him while he ejected the clip and loaded a new one from his belt to finish him off. 

Two more shots. Another two. Duck behind a pillar. One in the foot, stagger back, one to the head. He’d stopped counting bullets by now. It didn’t matter, it was all blending together by now. He’d moved into a hallway now, feeling his hair beginning to stick to his brow from the sweat and his breath coming a little heavier. The next door is onto the balcony above the main dance floor, and he can see Iosef now, a chill running up his arms, hands growing cold as he switched weapons once again and reloaded. 

The bodyguards at this point just felt like minor inconveniences and wasted bullets. He went through three more effortlessly as he rounded the corner and now, oh, now Iosef was running straight away from him. He was making it easy. John lined up his shot, feeling hellfire rush down his arms as his chest began to burn, and as he went to fire– the squirrely little bastard, made it through the door at the end just as another guard cut him off from one of the side doors. 

John snarled as he ducked behind a bead-draped pillar as an incoming shot struck it, and he peered around it to fire back and hit the leg of the other before picking up a piece of glassware from the table nearby and shattering it against his face. Streaks of yellow fire spilled from his lips as a fury burned in his throat, grabbing the bodyguard by his beard and yanking his head down onto one of the tables, firing two shots into his skull. He whipped around harshly to begin his pursuit of Iosef again, but as soon as his gaze lifted, he felt the impact of a bullet pierce his armored vest, shattering his rib and causing him to stagger, immediately followed by another that knocked him on his ass and knocked the wind out of him. 

Now they were talking. John coughed and wheezed a bit from his position on the floor, a bit of blood coming up with it, but quickly had to react, sitting up slightly to fire back, nailing one in the head, but narrowly missing the second and hearing the click of the empty mag. John grit his teeth and quickly took the opportunity as the guard ducked behind a pillar to roll out of the way and take cover himself. 

Pain lanced through his body at every movement. He heaved out his breaths, grunting and huffing from the effort, touching around where this bullet impacted his chest and feeling the bruise before reaching back to find another clip to reload. Nothing. Gritting his teeth, he waited as the guard slowly approached him, before leaping to his feet and grabbing his gun with both hands to force it away from himself. 

The two struggled against each other for a good moment, long enough to know that John had lost his shot, and at this point it was pure survival to get out of there. Teeth bared, he snarled as he managed to push the other guy up against the railing after disarming him, but not without taking a good kick to the chest that nearly knocked his lights out and some hits to the head. Eyes wild and brimming with fire, his forearm pressed hard against his throat, fingers digging into the man’s face and he pushed out raw fury and wrath to form his nails into claws and rake down to draw blood. Not enough. Too slow. The bodyguard fumbled and managed to get ahold of a bottle from the table next to him and smashed it against John’s shoulder before driving it upwards and stabbing the broken edge right between John’s belt and his armored vest. 

John howled and couldn’t help but draw back, grabbing the other’s wrist and forcing it away to get him to drop the bottle, but as he went in for another hit, his arm was grabbed, the man ducked, and threw him over his shoulders.

The second he felt his feet leave the ground, he braced himself, because he knew exactly what was about to happen next. He struggled against the goon, digging in his nails that were losing their clawed shape, but by the time he could find purchase to shake the guy holding him it was too late. He felt the grip leaving him, the floor drop, then the impact of his spine and the back of his head against the floor, and his vision went black. 

_“I love her.”_

_“Are you even capable of feeling that?”_

_A beat._

_“She means everything to me.”_

_“And what are you willing to sacrifice to keep that everything?”_

_“Whatever it takes.”_

_Hot iron burns against him. The smell of charred flesh, the sounds of his own screams. His very soul shakes under the weight of what he vows. The pact cannot be broken. The deal has merely changed._

_You still have work to do, Mr. Wick._

He wasn’t sure how long he was gone, but it couldn’t have been that long, because he hadn’t been shot twenty times over in the interim. His eyes snapped open with a small burst of fire and he gasped as his breath returned, his body tensing as he forced movement back into his arms to reach behind him and pull his Glock 26 from the back of his belt and fire a few stray shots upwards towards the balcony he was thrown from. Everyone scattered, panic setting in, and John struggled to his feet. Still not enough.

* * *

Late that night, after a visit from the good doctor, John lay in bed, uncomfortably flat on his back to avoid agitating his injuries. They still needed some proper dressing, he didn’t know how immune to infection he was and with his luck, it was probably not at all, so at least he had some peace of mind there. For now. 

He had just barely settled into something of a sleep state finally, though, when a shot pierced the window and bored its way through his shoulder, drawing a strangled cry from him as he shot upright. Talk about a wake-up call. 

He quickly glanced to the window, tracing the trajectory of the shot, before rolling off the bed and getting down to make his way to the door. 

**BANG! BANG!**

He ducked back again, hiding behind the partition along the back of his bed as immediately when he poked out, who else but Perkins was there. 

“Hey, John!” She called. 

John hopped up onto the bed again, rolling along it and avoiding four more shots from Perkins’ P99 through the partition, following him closely. 

“Perkins,” he hissed through gritted teeth

“Just thought I’d let myself in!”

He got down lower, pulling the cloth sling off his arm and wrapping part of it around his hand. “I _noticed_.” 

Perkins rounded the partition, and John was immediately on his feet towards her, wrapping the other end of the cloth around her hand, forcing her gun away from himself as she fired a few times uselessly, before he was able to get some leverage and strike it away from her. Whipping around, he then got the fabric around her neck, pinning her to the wall, grunting as one of her hands found its way around his neck in kind. 

“I never knew Ms. Perkins got out of bed for less than three!” he spat.

Perkins smiled slyly, her nails getting sharper as they dug into John’s skin. “Viggo’s paying me four to break hotel rules.”

He felt a slight pang in his chest. “That’s unwise, I assure you.” 

He tightened the cloth around Perkins’ throat, turning around and moving her forcibly so they were briefly back-to-back, before bending forwards and leveraging her up over his shoulders and onto the ground. As he lifted her up, holding her by the jacket, she gave him a look with smug confidence, her eyes flashing a deep red, looking almost cat-like. 

“You were always a pussy.”

She brought her hands up, hitting hard against John’s arms, getting him to break his grip before grabbing his arm and giving him the same treatment, using his own weight against him to slam him down on the floor.

John rolled away, getting up onto one knee, eyes bleeding yellow and glowing through the dimness of the room. Perkins shifted and braced herself, lifting part of her leather jacket to her mouth and biting down as John leapt to his feet and charged her like a bull, swinging hard with his fist. 

Perkins snarled as she grabbed his arm and wrenched it back, but it didn’t entirely stop his momentum as he shoved her with his shoulder, now, pushing her back before she was able to twist around and get him on his back on the couch. She got around behind him, letting her jacket go from her mouth as she bared her fangs, getting it around his neck and pulling hard. John struggled against her, hissing flames through his teeth as he lifted his legs to throw them forward, using it as leverage to force himself upright. Perkins, being much smaller than him, was able to get her body around and push off the wall with her feet, clinging to John’s back and digging her claws into his chest as he stood. 

Almost howling as her claws met with the bullet wound in his shoulder and the center of his chest, he snapped his own hands up to swipe her arms with his own claws now and threw his weight back, slamming Perkins’ body into a set of glass shelves against the wall. 

Both of them falling forwards, John hunched over the bed, Perkins growled low as she slid forwards and grabbed her opponent by the arm, wrenching him around so he was basically on his back, pinning his other arm between her legs. John threw his head back, jaws snapping furiously, the flames rising in his throat as Perkins used their position to sink her claws into his previous wound from the Red Circle. 

John craned his neck uncomfortably, struggling against her, trying to find purchase amidst her relentlessly starting to pound on the wound, and finally finding a spot to bite down on her, razor teeth slicing through her jacket like it was nothing and sinking into her flesh, finally causing her to let go as she tried to get away with a yelp. 

John felt a low, primal growl rise in his throat as he only bit down harder, claws finding their way to her, and she snapped back with her own swipes and a plume of bright red fire past her lips, clambering around onto John’s back again and digging in, one arm going around his neck to choke him with her elbow, the other hand grabbing his hair and pulling as hard as she could.

Again, as he stood he threw his body backwards in an effort to shake her, breaking the wall-mounted TV, before he managed to get a hold on her to flip her over his shoulders and into the table nearby. 

While she was still dazed on the floor, John moved over to the bed, pulling off the flat sheet and shaking it out, quickly turning around and wrapping it fully around Perkins’ head as she got up. She tried to struggle against him, but he didn’t relent, not for a second, reeling back and striking her in the face once, twice, his lips curled in a feral snarl as he grabbed her arm and held it out to duck under it, hoisting her up onto his shoulder. Using all of his weight and strength to lift her, he used the forward momentum to throw her as hard as he could, sending her crashing through the stained glass decoration of the partition above the bed and towards the door. 

John was then painfully aware of the absolute agony he was in, and in their struggle, he didn’t even hear the phone ringing until now. 

Out of breath, he picked up the receiver, leaning against the parting wall and sliding to the floor. “Yes?”

“I apologize for calling you at this hour…” Charon’s voice greeted him on the other side of the line. “But we have received a number of grievances from your floor concerning the noise.”

“My apologies,” John tried not to sound like he was as exhausted as he was. “I was dealing with… an uninvited guest.”

“Have you need then, of, say… a dinner reservation, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. I'll have to get back to you.”

John hung up, slowly getting to his feet again with a wince, grabbing Perkins’ own gun on the way, striding out the door to see her exactly where he expected. Crawling her way down the hall. 

Carefully, he approached, getting down on one knee and grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her up to get his arm around her neck and aim her gun to her head. 

“Where’s Iosef?”

“Fuck you!” Perkins spat back, some blood coming with it as she tried to pry John’s arm off.

“Where’s Viggo?” 

“I’m not telling you shit!”

John curled his lip, pressing the barrel of his gun more firmly to Perkins’ temple. “Do you really want to die here, Perkins? Because I won’t.” He leaned in a bit closer. “Give me something.”

She still struggled a bit in his grasp, nails digging into his forearm as she grunted, but eventually conceded. “…Little Russia. There’s a church near Cannon Court.”

“What about it?”

“It’s a front. It’s where Viggo keeps his private stash.”

John eased up slightly. “Thank you.” And then reeled his hand back, striking the back of her head with her gun and knocking her out. 

A click from behind him. A different voice. “Do I know you?”

Ah. “I’m thinkin’ so.” John slowly lifted his hand, showing that his finger was off the trigger as he turned. 

“John…?” 

“Hey, Harry.” 

“Of course it’d be you…” Harry slowly lowered his own weapon, seeming almost exasperated as he spoke. 

“I’ve been getting that a lot. Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.” 

Harry sighed. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he glanced back to Perkins’ unconscious form on the floor. “Everything’s fine.”

Harry fully eased, now, turning back to return to his room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

“Hey, Harry-” He stopped. John looked back to face him. “You keen on earning a coin? Babysitting the sleeping one?”

Harry leaned to the side a bit, surveying the scene. “Catch and release?”

“Catch and release.”

* * *

_“A thousand lives for yours, Mr. Wick. But you must suffer a thousand more to know peace.”_

_“I’ll do what you want. Just let me be with her in peace.”_

_“Of course you can. But you know your soul is tainted…” There’s a name said. It’s not his, but yet he knows it is._

_He winces, feels his knees buckle a little, he wants to get down on them, but resists as much as he can. “I know.”_

_“And so it will be, written in flesh and blood.”_

* * *

John let out a slow breath as he looked down at his hands, dumping out two pills the Doctor had given him prior, dry swallowing them before replacing the cap and tucking them back into the inside pocket of his jacket. This should be easy. 

Careful steps brought him into the church, and as soon as his feet crossed the threshold he felt a slight burning in his chest, felt his previous wounds start to sting, but he pushed through into the cathedral, the doors closing with a loud echo behind him. 

Striding down the middle of the pews, his eyes surveyed the few people around, most with their head bowed in prayer, but he was able to catch a glimpse of a couple men who eyed him as he walked by. 

The priest, clad in green robes with ornate gold detail approached him from the altar, now, addressing him as he drew near. “My son, how might I help you?”

John didn’t wait. From the bag slung over his shoulder, he drew a CA-415 rifle, and fired around into the priest’s leg. The other two men around, the ones he knew were watching, leapt up from the pews and drew their own weapons, but it didn’t matter. He quickly got rid of those in the pews, before turning around sharply to fire into the balcony above the door and taking another guard out up there, only taking a few stray shots towards himself that all missed him by a mile. 

With them out of the way, he turned his attention towards the priest. 

“Motherfucker!” He hissed from the ground, clutching his leg where John shot him in hopes to staunch the bleeding. When he spoke again, he spat in Russian this time. “ _Do you know who you’re fucking with?_ ”

John approached, the rifle aimed perfectly between the eyes. “ _Yeah. I do._ ” He braced the stock back under his arm, before reaching down and hoisting the priest up to his feet, guiding him back towards the pulpit. “Let’s go to the vault.”

It’s not far there. John takes a step down some stairs, firing into the shoulder of the guard at the end of them before he can even react, then doing the same to the other man in front of the barred gate. As he walked by, he reached down and ejected the clip from each f the other men’s guns before tossing them to the wayside and unceremoniously putting his hand in the middle of the priest’s back to shove him towards the gate. 

The priest groaned as he fell against the bars, sliding to the ground and looking up at John with ire, staring down the barrel of his rifle. “ _Do you think you can scare me into opening this gate?_ ”

John didn’t even blink. “ _Yes, I do. Open it._ ”

He faltered, glancing over the hitman with a slight fear rising to his eyes. “Viggo will kill me…”

John whipped around, striking one of the guards as hard as he could in the jaw with the stock of his rifle in a spray of blood as he attempted to get up, before firing a round straight to his skull and turning back to aim once again at the priest with a flash of yellow eyes. “Uh huh.”

The priest shifted, hanging his head as he sighed and dropped his shoulders. Begrudgingly, he lifted a hand, and punched in the code that allowed the gate to swing open and John snapped his attention there. 

Two women sat behind a table, fear in their eyes as they met John’s gaze before he addressed them. “Ladies, out.” They didn’t need to be told twice and scrambled to move past him and leave. “ _Have a nice day,_ ” he said after them.

And he got to work dumping the contents of Viggo’s stash on the floor. 

Huffing, the priest finally spoke again after John had thoroughly gone through it all. “Honestly, what do you think you’re going to do with all that?”

John had to force a slight smirk from his lips as he reached to his belt and pulled a glass bottle that looked to be filled with some sort of slightly black oil from it. “This.” He chucked the bottle at the pile, which shattered on impact, releasing a gout of gold fire that quickly caught and grew into an inferno as he turned to leave.

* * *

Viggo was coming. This he knew. It was almost hilarious how predictably he worked as John surveyed from the roof of a building across the street. 

He could hear Viggo cursing in Russian as he walked back towards his vehicle, turning to Avi with obvious anger, pointing harshly into his chest. “Can we recover from this?”

Avi ran a hand down the back of his own head. “Viggo, you know what was in that vault, right? It’s not-”

Viggo pushed him slightly and turned away, face twisting to frustration. 

The air was split with the crack of John’s CA-415, and the bodyguard to Viggo’s right collapsed in a spray of blood from the back of his head. Viggo and Avi quickly ducked behind the vehicle nearby as John continued to fire as he approached, before taking cover himself as Kirill fired his Glock back at him.

John ripped through most of Viggo’s support like tissue paper. One, two, three men down. He slid along the opposite side of one of the trucks as the other men fired into it, ejecting the clip from his rifle and reloading, taking out three more as he rounded the other side of it and got closer, making sure to keep his shots coming. He let the rifle fall to his side as soon as it was empty again, reaching back to draw his pistol instead to take out a few more of Viggo’s men, now at a closer range. 

He heard yelling in Russian, some things he couldn’t quite make out, before ducking behind another truck and holstering his pistol again, reloading the rifle and lying in wait as one of the guards began to approach him. As soon as he got close, John grabbed his wrist to point his gun away from his body, twisted, and fired into the man behind him, before turning back and finishing the one he was holding. 

John moved to keep one of the other vehicles between him and the others, focusing his fire, his blood beginning to boil as his hands grew cold around the rifle, and in his periphery, he heard the sound of an engine, the roar of acceleration, and felt the back end of the car he had ducked behind slam into his side and his ribs and spine shatter on impact as he flew to the side and hit the ground. Blood openly poured from his mouth and a gash along his head where he hit the asphalt, and the last thing he saw, through a haze of blood, was Viggo standing over him.

* * *

_Wind blows across his face. His feet are sunk in soft sand and the smell of the ocean surrounds him as waves crash against the shore._

_The sky glows white and all that lay before him was the beach… and Helen. The whole world had narrowed down to this moment._

_Helen turns to look back at him, soft smile playing across her lips. “What are you doing, John?”_

_“…Looking at you.” His voice sounds rough against everything soft enveloping him._

_She giggles and it sounds like silver bells. “Come here…”_

_She reaches out, as does he, but as soon as his hands meet her skin, he watches them form blackened claws, the sky going red, and it feels as though someone grabs him by the throat and pulls him sharply away._

**_Not yet._ **

* * *

A gasp. A fire in his throat as he coughed and blinked to clear the haze from his eyes, looking around. He became aware of the fact his hands were behind his back in handcuffs and he was sitting in a chair in a building that’s purpose he couldn’t discern. 

Viggo stepped forward into his vision. “I’ll tell you this, John.” His footsteps echoed in the mostly empty room. “They sure as fuck broke the mold with you.” 

John’s eyes scanned the room slowly, taking in his surroundings. Four men. Viggo, Avi, the man from the Red Circle, Kirill, and another he didn’t recognize. Viggo and Avi stood in front of him with Kirill and the other to either of his sides. Wherever they were was under construction, with plastic lining parts of the floor, temporary scaffolding erected in various places, and an old yellow work light providing most of the light in the room. Most jarring of all, though, was the chalk markings in a circle around him, that when he experimentally brushed with his foot, felt an intense burn jolt up his body.

Avi moved to the side and pulled a sheet from a chair, moving it to be across from John. 

Viggo slowly sat down across from him, shrugging his jacket that was just draped over his shoulders off and letting it fall over the back of his chair. “You always had a certain… audacity about you, you know.” 

John’s hands balled into fists behind him, and a burning rose in his chest, but he couldn’t let it out. 

Viggo smiled, chuckling a bit, like this was a game to him as John stared daggers into his soul. “I can say you're still very much the John Wick of old.”

John’s lip curled slightly. “Am I?”

The other leaned forward. “People don't change. You know that. Times, they do.”

John didn’t respond. Anger boiled beneath his skin, infernal blood threatening to make changes to suit his wicked intent. 

Viggo sighed as he leaned further towards him still. “Do you know what was in that vault?” His tone changed, becoming more intense. “Artwork, cash, not without its worth. But the leverage I had on this city- audio recordings, physical evidence, blackmail- It was fuckin' priceless!” He gestured with his left hand, gesticulating as his voice became more irate and he was on his feet, now. “ _Priceless!_ ”

The hitman raised his eyebrows slightly, a bit of the tension easing from his body as he looked a bit more amused now by Viggo’s reaction. “Yeah. I kind of enjoyed that.”

Viggo stared for a moment, before laughing and nodding as he moved closer again. “Yeah, I know you did! Yeah.” His expression quickly changed as he saw the smirk playing on John’s lips, his hand balling into a fist and striking him in the jaw. John recoiled, nearly falling out of his chair, before one of Viggo’s men grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back into it with a grunt. 

Anger flashed back into John’s blood as he sat hunched, mouth hanging open as he felt the bruise settling into his jaw and he pulled against his restraints. 

“So-” Viggo moved back around again, moving the chair to be a bit closer, just outside the radius of the chalk circle around him and sitting down again. “Ah, then you got married, huh? Settled down. How did you manage that anyways?”

John’s breath was still hot as adrenaline still pumped through him, his gaze attempting to rip Viggo to shreds once more “Luck, I guess.”

“Yeah… Yeah, while you had your wife, I had my son. And believe me, you had a far better deal.” He laughed again, leaning back and returning to his feet to circle the hitman. “And then you left.” Viggo leaned in now, unhindered by the runes. “And the way you got out… lying to yourself that the past held no sway over the future. But in the end…” He moved back and finished his circle around the other, returning to his seat. “A lot of us are rewarded for our misdeeds… which is why God took your wife…”

John tensed as those words left the Russian’s mouth, his eyes beginning to fill with fire.

“…and unleashed you upon me. This life follows you. It clings to you… infecting everyone who comes close to you. We are cursed, you and I.”

His expression slowly shifted from anger to something much more somber, more resigned. “…On that, we agree.” 

Viggo looked almost shocked at that, laughing and relaxing back into his chair. “Finally, common ground!”

It only lasted a moment as he tensed once more. “Step aside. Give me your son.”

“John Wick…” Viggo leaned in, his voice switching to a mocking tone. “ _The bies…_ ” He stood up abruptly, now, pulling his jacket from the chair. “It was just a fucking car. Just a fuckin' dog!”

“Just a dog…” John hung his head for a moment. “Viggo.”

Viggo stopped while he was pulling his jacket on and turned, lifting a hand to his men to tell them to hold on. “Yeah?”

“When Helen died, I lost everything. Until that dog arrived on my doorstep- a final gift from my wife. In that moment, I received some semblance of hope… an opportunity to grieve unalone.” John lifted his head, eyes beginning to burn. “And your son… took that from me.”

“Oh, God.”

“-Stole that from me. Killed that from me!” John’s voice rang out as he hissed through his teeth with yellow fire punctuating each word, but as the fire inside him burned he could feel it being held back. 

Viggo looked back, clearly unamused, but John couldn’t stop himself.

“People keep asking if I'm back… and I haven't really had an answer. But now, yeah, I'm thinkin' I'm back! So you can either hand over your son… or you can die screaming alongside him!” He leapt to his feet, in a final effort to push himself, but as soon as he did, the flames that poured from his eyes and mouth were instantly snuffed out when he even got close to the edge of the circle, and he was forced back down by the two men behind him as the runes grew hot and he felt his blood begin to burn. 

John screamed in agony as he was held down, the pain lancing through his entire body unlike anything he had ever felt before, far more painful than any bullet or car crash or stab wound. His back arched as he struggled against his captors, his skin burning and revealing black chitin up his arms and through his previous wounds, teeth distorting to fangs as he howled something warped and demonic. 

It was then a silenced shot split the air, the bullet shattering the window and striking the floor beside him, the runes burning out the instant they were disrupted, and John leapt to his feet as the men who held him ducked back. 

Not enough. Not enough. John growled low as his eyes burned and yellow flames dripped from his mouth, his shoulders pulling as he tore his wrists apart, snapping the handcuffs like they were cheap plastic. He barged forwards, slamming his body into full force into the man to his left, sending him almost quite literally flying backwards from the force of the impact, slamming into a section of the metal scaffolding. 

John whipped around, facing Kirill now, who fumbled with his weapon trying to find the source of where the sniper shot had come from before turning to fire at the pissed off demon after hearing him snarl, but missed by a mile. John threw his body forwards again, gripping Kirill’s gun by the top of the barrel and wrenching it away from himself, grunting as the other’s elbow came up to strike him in the nose. Kirill’s hand came up and grabbed the back of the other’s neck, John doing the same and attempting to grab the henchmen’s throat and dig with his claws, but his wrist was being pushed away. Kirill kicked at John’s legs, eliciting a growl and burst of fire to erupt from his throat as he got a good hit in and was able to sweep John onto the floor. 

The two struggled against each other, John’s sudden burst of strength beginning to wane as Kirill got him on his back and punched down to nail him in the face a few times before he was able to roll out of the way, digging his claws into Kirill’s leg and pulling him down onto his back as well and lunging over him. The Russian’s hand shot up, grabbing John’s face and keeping him forced away as he slid backwards, reaching for his gun that had been ripped from his hand prior, only to drop it again as John bit hard into his hand with jagged fangs. Kirill kicked hard into John’s chest as he wrenched his hand away with a yelp, taking a good bit of flesh with it, punching out with the other as well and nailing the other in the jaw, dazing him enough to get to his knees and shove him to the ground. 

John scrambled a bit as Kirill’s knee hit between his shoulders, and he felt the other pull up some of the plastic sheeting that was on the ground and wrap it around his neck. He twisted and writhed enough, grasping at the article choking him to try and shred it with his claws, to no avail, but he was able to eventually flip himself over so he was upright, and Kirill switched to using one hand to hold both ends of the plastic sheet around his neck, the other wrapping around his body to hold his arms at his sides down by his wrists. 

He huffed and sputtered, seeing pinpricks start to form at the edges of his vision as he started to get light headed from gasping. John reached out frantically, kicking and struggling, and to his dismay, he was able to find Kirill’s gun on the floor. 

With limited movement, though, he wouldn’t be able to get a good shot. 

So with that thought in mind, John steeled himself, pressed the barrel of the gun into a soft spot in his own gut… and fired. He felt the bullet rip through his own flesh and pain tore through his already agonized body, but more importantly, it hit Kirill too, causing him to let go and John to gasp and cough as he tried to catch his breath again. Using the adrenaline, John almost roared as he forced himself to his feet, whipping back around to fire another shot straight through Kirill’s skull. 

He was going to die again most likely, the bleeding was fairly severe, though he did try to aim where it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but he couldn’t die. Not yet. Not until he had Viggo. 

John stumbled out into the street, having commandeered one of the high-powered shotguns from Viggo’s men, just in time to see him peel away down the street. He grit his teeth, feeling his body fading in and out, but he forced himself to keep going, he could feel how close he was getting. He just needed to cut around behind the building, under the overpass, and if he was fast enough– Perfect. He limped out onto the street in front of the car Viggo was in, lifting the shotgun and firing into the windshield, purposefully missing Viggo but causing the car to swerve and hit one of the parked cars nearby. 

John grunted and hoisted himself on to the hood of the car Viggo was in, blasting through the windshield to instantly kill the driver, before ejecting the round and chambering another with the slide to aim directly at the mob boss in question. 

Viggo’s eyes went wide, his hands going up into the air, and he fumbled to start to open the car door as John gestured with the gun for him to get out. 

“Hey, hey! Cool it, cool it, cool it, cool it!” Viggo was out of the car now, hands still up, looking up at him. “John!”

John whipped the shotgun to the side and fired next to Viggo who shouted back at him and drew back in response. “Where is he?” The hitman barked. 

“Shit!” Viggo couldn’t help but cry out in frustration, John returning his aim to him and chambering another round. A silence hung between them for a beat, and Viggo could see John definitely wasn’t fucking around. “I have your word, then, if I tell you where he is, you’ll let me walk away.”

“Pull the contract.” 

He shifted, leaning over a bit to glance at the slain driver of the vehicle. “...Done.”

John grunted as he got down, sliding off the hood and back onto his feet, re-aiming immediately. 

“He's kept in a safe house. Brooklyn. 434 Wallace Place.” He swallowed hard. “They know you're coming.”

“Of course. But it won't matter.”

* * *

_He’s there again. His feet in the sand, waves lapping at the shore, but this time he’s alone._

_He knows why he’s there._

_His last true memory of Helen. Before it all happened._

_His only form of solace in his many deaths._

_John looks down at his hands and sees they’ve become black and chitinous up to his elbows, tipped with wicked claws and accented with sharp spikes running along his forearms._

_He catches his reflection in a nearby tide pool. He takes it in, and he knows. His eyes had turned pure yellow, contrasting where his black hair hung in messy, sweaty strands framing his face, two black horns protruding from his forehead and the lower section of his jaw covered in the same black chitin and forming a set of external fangs over his lips._

_“What are you doing, John?”_

_He looks up, and Helen is there again, a smile across her lips as sweet as ever. But her eyes are pure white and lifeless._

_“Helen– Don’t… Don’t look at me…” His voice comes out wrong. It’s distorted, layered, demonic. It’s not his voice._

_She doesn’t seem fazed and takes a step forward, giving a light laugh. “Come here.”_

_Her hand reaches out, and when it brushes his body it burns like a hot iron, and the feeling travels to his chest, growing hotter, and he feels a familiar pull again._

_Selfish. You did that on purpose, didn’t you? Get up._

* * *

John groaned as he came to, looking down at his hands, relieved to see they were normal again, and checking his watch. He wasn’t out that long, only a few minutes. At the point he was at, it was easier to just let himself die and come back, because at least his wounds seemed to heal to a workable point by then. And he knew his next task would be simple. 

Kill. Everyone. 

Good thing Viggo wasn’t dumb enough to lie to him. His information was definitely correct as he slunk through the outskirts of what appeared to be an abandoned industrial warehouse complex. He lie in wait to hear when the guards called for a check on their positions over the radio, taking out all of the ones in his way after they did so until he got to one of the sniper positions. 

“ _Position 2._ ”

“ _Check._ ”

“ _Position 3. Check in._ ”

John lowered the rifle he had just… "commandeered" for a moment. “ _Check._ ” 

Through the scope, he was able to see Iosef’s reflection through one of the windows of the building, but there was no clear shot on him. So he fired through the skull of what he assumed was a friend of his who was sitting on the couch, completely oblivious. He heard the bodyguards speak through the radio in a panic, and John lifted his aim to take out one of the other snipers on the roof across the way, before focusing back at the window and firing into the guard who was gesturing towards Iosef. 

Almost. 

Another sniper out of the way, and he was able to move freely into the warehouse proper now, where he promptly set off the explosives he had set prior to destroy all of the vehicles parked there to cut off their escape. 

Iosef and the last remaining guard came down the stairs, and from seemingly nowhere, a shot rang out and executed the guard, leaving just Iosef in a warehouse of smoldering cars, dead bodies, and John Wick. His gaze darted around furiously, heart pounding in his chest, and he ran for his life, attempting to weave between some of the large metal shipping crates, but it wasn’t enough. Never enough. Yellow eyes burned through the shadows and the smoke. A bullet sunk into Iosef’s side, and he doubled over, collapsing back against one of the crates and sliding to the floor. 

He looked up, clutching the wound, floundering as John approached him, and attempted to sputter in Russian, “ _It was just a fuckin’-_ ”

**BANG!**

* * *

John had hoped to get actual rest in back at the Continental that wasn’t technically death, but when he collapsed on the bed he couldn’t even think about sleeping, his body felt like it was vibrating. Why couldn’t he relax? He had done exactly what he set out to do, but he still felt itchy. 

Perhaps he just needed to go home. 

He packed his things and went down to the concierge, placing his room key down on the desk and sliding it over. “Thank you.” 

Charon lifted his gaze, taking the key as John’s hand left it, replacing it with one of his own. A car key. “A parting gift. From the management,” he spoke, sliding it closer. “Compensation for last night’s unfortunate… incident.” 

John carefully took the key, looking it over, before looking back to Charon and nodding in thanks as he turned to leave.

* * *

John looked out across the water, hands against the cold metal railing, waiting. As expected, soon enough, his thoughts were cut by a voice behind him.

“How many times do I have to save your ass?” 

He turned to see Marcus there, smirk across his lips as he strode up to him and leaned against the railing. 

John almost laughed. “You shot me.”

“Had to make it look convincing. I knew you’d walk it off.” 

Real funny. John looked away again, back towards the water. “But I appreciate it. You didn’t have to. Lying to Viggo like that…”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me, figured it’d be a bit of a laugh. I know you more than he does. And I know you look terrible.”

He unconsciously touched the side of his jaw gently before responding. “No, I look retired.”

“Retired? You really believe that? I saw you when I broke that circle. Not a lot of people come back from that.”

John looked away. His fingers twitched a bit as he returned his hands to his pockets and his teeth felt too big for his mouth for a moment. 

“You made a new life. You'll find your way back to it.” A beat. The words hung heavy with John as he looked back to the other. “It's time to go home.” Marcus lifted a hand and patted him firmly on the shoulder as he walked past him.

Yeah. It was time to go home.

Except “home” wasn’t in the cards. Later that night, in the middle of his drive, he got a call. 

“This is John.” 

“I appreciate you granting my son a swift death.” _Viggo._

He felt his knuckles go white on the steering wheel. There was a beat between them where John didn't respond.

“I wouldn't know how to reply to that either… Quite a show you put on. Almost had me for a moment there! But, ah… Marcus betrayed me. So, John, I had no choice.”

He hung up and threw his car into a U-turn the second he could, almost gunning it towards Marcus’ home, pulling up to the side of the street and throwing it in park as he got out. When he made it to the door and discovered it was unlocked, his stomach dropped. 

John knew what he was about to see on the other side of that door, but even then he wasn’t prepared. 

The man who he had seen only a few hours prior, one of the few, if only, he considered a dear friend, slumped against the stairs with more than one gunshot wound to the chest, and a few other men around on the floor in the same state. 

Always the fighter.

John felt a chill run up his arms, and he stepped around Marcus’ body slowly, moving to sit down on the steps and put his head in his hands. 

Back at the Continental, Perkins responded to a call from Charon. She strode through the stone archway down the stairs, eyes tracing the area and all its elaborate architecture, before stopping short as he noticed a rune circle on the ground, and four people approached her from the shadows on all sides. 

Perkins turned, face still set in stubborn confidence, her hands leaving her pockets defensively. 

“Ms. Perkins…” It was Winston now who joined from under one of the arches, his voice almost sing-song as he addressed her. “Your membership to the Continental has been- by thine own hand- revoked.”

And that was all there was to it. Winston dismissed her just as easily, and the rune circle lit up around her. She glanced down and attempted to move past them, but an invisible force held her. Pain raced through her body, a deep burning as if her blood was instantly boiling in her veins, and she dropped to her knees with a howl of agony. Blood ran down her body, tracing the shape of the runes as her soul was slowly and painfully separated from her body to be burned away in an instant, and she collapsed, the runes and blood evaporating into nothing. As Winston strode by, he carefully placed a coin in Charlie’s hand, who tipped his hat, and got to work. 

The somber silence John sat in was cut by the sound of his phone ringing. He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket to produce it, and answered silently. 

“I know what you're thinking, Jonathan.” Winston’s voice. “We live by a code. Which is why I'm not the one telling you that… a certain helicopter at a certain helipad… is being fueled for a certain someone.”

John hung up.

* * *

Lightning flashed in the distance, proceeded by the clap of thunder splitting the air with its roar. John white-knuckled the wheel all the way to the helipad, the burning in his chest getting hotter as he came upon Viggo’s lineup of cars. 

He barely thought as he floored it, coming up behind the last car in the line, lip curling as the side of his car met with the others’ harshly, trying to spin them out. The first attempt was no good, but John got closer, the vehicles parallel next to each other, and he swerved again, this time hitting harder and managing to get the other car to slide off the platform and careen down the near fifty foot drop to the side. 

John gunned the engine again, eyes set forward on Viggo's truck, steering now to be on the driver's side and swerving to hit the back end as hard as he could, once, twice, three times. All no good. They were rattled, but not off the road. They started to turn though, now, and John saw his chance. He kept his foot hard on the gas, and threw the wheel towards them, finally getting the back tires to kick out and the truck to lose control and slide, wrapping the side of the vehicle around a concrete pylon. 

He slammed on the brakes as he sped past them now, before throwing it in reverse, looking back as Viggo's men got out of the car now and began firing on him. The back window shattered almost instantly, and he ducked forwards, speeding towards them in reverse and hitting one of them hard enough to roll up over the roof of the car, and he drew his gun to fire through it several times, leading his shots the entire way until the guard finally fell onto the hood and to the ground. Keeping it reversed still, John turned sharply, striking another bodyguard with the front end and flipping him up over the hood, quickly aiming to shoot him out the window on his side while he was still on the ground before turning again so he was facing directly away from Viggo's truck. He put both feet on the pedals, holding the brake and accelerator down, keeping his head low, before letting go of the brake and charging the car backwards until it slammed into the open car door, crushing the man there between it and the main chassis. 

One left. He was ducked behind a concrete block, taking pot shots at John and missing horribly, and John threw his car back into drive as he barreled towards the other, reloading along the way, and effortlessly drifting around the slab he was using for cover and burying a few bullets in him at the same time. 

His gaze snapped around as he hit the brake, searching for anyone left, and as he did so, a shot hit the driver side door, just below the window. He looked up sharply to see where the shot came from, and saw Avi, looking quite proud of himself for such a miss. John didn’t give him any time to gloat, firing back and nailing him in the leg, causing him to yelp and drop down to his knee. Frustrated, John stepped on the gas and turned his car, barreling straight towards him until the last second where he threw the handbrake and drifted the car sideways, slamming full force into Avi. The other man’s head struck the only remaining window on the passenger side door, shattering and going through it completely, and John’s focus narrowed as he watched the river of crimson ooze from his mouth as he slid down the side and onto the concrete. 

John barely had any time after that, though, as the sound of a revving engine cut in over the distant, but growing closer, roar of thunder, and as he turned to look he was met with the grill of another car, and Viggo behind the wheel, T-boning him and gunning it towards the ledge. 

He grit his teeth, reaching down to the floor to retrieve his gun again, firing out the window almost wildly and hitting the windshield around Viggo, missing as he ducked out of the way. Frustrated, and nearing the drop off now, John threw his seat back and crawled his way towards the back window, bracing himself as the rain began to trickle down, before he leapt from the vehicle to safety almost the instant the wheels tipped off the side and it tumbled down in a mangled wreck. 

Hoisting himself to his feet as soon as he could, he aimed through the passenger side window, only to see that Viggo had gone, and behind him, the sound of a helicopter roared to life. He turned slowly, eyes burning through the strands of black hair that had fallen over and clung to his face as the rain began to come down much harder and soak him to the bone. And he made eye contact with Viggo, who stopped in his tracks. 

“No more guns, John.” Viggo called as the hitman grew near.

John didn’t slow his approach, his chest burning hotter and hotter. 

“No more bullets.”

John curled his lip, rolling his shoulders back and tossing his gun to the wayside. “No more bullets.”

The two circled each other, slow, methodical. Two apex predators. 

“Just you and me, John.”

“You and me.”

John slowly lifted his hands, getting down into a defensive stance, Viggo doing the same, but John could tell already his form wasn’t nearly as refined. Years of sitting on his ass, he supposed. But then again, he had just got done doing the same. 

Viggo threw the first punch, after feigning the first few, and John’s arm quickly shot up to block, punching back with the other and missing narrowly as the other moved his head out of the way. And John kept punching, each one becoming more aggressive than the last, Viggo blocking a few, but as soon as John broke through, he slammed his fist into his chest once, twice, teeth bared and beginning to drip with fire that hissed as the raindrops hit it, gripping Viggo’s jacket and pushing him back. Viggo retaliated by lifting his hand above his head and slamming it down on John’s arm, causing it to buckle and for him to let go, stumbling back a bit before John charged him again and struck him across the face. He tried to punch back, but John leaned back out of the way, sending a spray of rainwater out. John punched back at an alarming speed, nailing him twice in a row, the second hit sending Viggo backward to hit his back against a stack of crates behind him, to which John swiftly closed to distance and grabbed the other, forcing him up and pinning him there with his forearm against his throat.

Viggo’s hands came up and grabbed at him, and it felt like his grip almost burned against his arms. “What happened, John?” He sputtered out. “We were professionals. Civilized!”

John bared his teeth, flashing fangs and yellow eyes and he pushed against him. Lightning flashed above them and cast harsh shadows in their wake, and it seemed as though John’s was adorned with massive wings and sharp tail as his gaze burned through Viggo. 

“Do I look civilized to you?” The words came hissed through his teeth and tinged with yellow fire, and he thrust his arm upwards to slam Viggo in the head with his fist to stun him. He drew away then, grabbing the Russian by the arm, and hoisting him up over his back to throw him to the ground, his weight coming down on him as well with a sharp crack and a pained cry from the other. 

John stood again, looking down at Viggo as he groaned and shakily, slowly tried to get to his feet again. They stared each other down, John getting into a ready stance again, watching as Viggo reached into his pocket, and drew a switchblade. Except this wasn’t anything ordinary, as he could see etchings along the blade that glinted in the light, and that concerned him. 

They stood off with each other for a few moments longer, John recalculating on the fly to try an account for what the etchings on that knife actually _did_ , and how he was going to counter it. Viggo made the first move again, trusting the knife forwards, and John grabbed his arm, forcing it around so he could twist his body and get behind him. The other whipped around and swiped towards John’s stomach, and he caught his hand with both of his, gripping hard and digging with his nails to try and get him to drop the blade. Viggo didn’t give in, though, using his other hand to almost do the same, relentlessly landing blows into John’s arm. 

John looked down at the knife, seeing that the etchings were some sort of runic addition, then back to Viggo, and he grit his teeth as he pulled Viggo’s hand towards his body, burying the knife into his own stomach. As soon as the blade broke skin, he let out an agonized howl, the area around the wound burning like hot iron, like what he had felt before in the rune circle, his scream almost amplified by the clap of thunder overhead. John’s hands burned as they began to change, his now-claws sinking into Viggo’s flesh as he used the leverage against his own ribs to yank his arm upwards with a sickening snap, easily breaking it. 

Viggo staggered back, letting go of the knife, frantically swinging and managing to get a hit on John as he stumbled back as well, clutching where the knife was still embedded in his skin. The burning persisted, traveling through his body like fire following a trail of gunpowder, and as he yanked the blade free, the runes on it glowed red hot, his blood almost instantly evaporating from it it's surface. 

They were both frantic, now, John’s blood running near black as it soaked through his already drenched shirt, and he whipped around as Viggo tried to throw another hook in his direction. The blow was easily blocked, and, flames pouring from John’s eyes and mouth now, he raised his hand above his head and slammed Viggo’s own knife deep into his shoulder, reveling in the howl he let out before in a last ditch frenzy, Viggo managed to get a hit on him in the jaw. 

The two stumbled back, thoroughly spent, both of them collapsing to the ground and clutching their wounds. 

Freezing rain washed over both of them, drenching them to the bone, and they sat in near silence for a few long moments there. The only sound was the rain picking up, the roll of thunder, and their labored breaths and quiet groans of pain. 

Viggo was the first to speak after a moment, his voice strained and breathy. “Be seeing you, John.”

“Yeah.” By now John’s fire had all but burned out. “Be seeing you.”

The only difference between them is John still had enough life left to force himself to his feet, and leave Viggo behind.

* * *

_“What are you doing, John?”_

_The breeze washes over him. His lips twitch up in a smile as Helen meets his eyes, and her expression was just as soft as he remembers. “Looking at you.” He says._

_She laughs lightly, and he almost cries. “Come here…”_

_He almost hesitates. But her fingers brush his skin, as his to hers, and she’s soft, and wonderful, and warm. He’s able to wrap his arms around her, and he brings her close to his chest and captures her lips in a kiss._

_For a moment, he thinks that he’s not coming back from this. Or at the very least, he doesn’t want to. But there’s a burning in his left side and in his chest, and he’s pulled again._

_You have served, and you will be of service._

John’s eyes opened slowly. The most notable thing about this time, though, is that he was still bleeding. Not as badly, but enough to be concerned about. Groaning, he forced himself to his feet, clutching the wound tightly as he stumbled forwards into the building nearby. He didn’t exactly know where he was, but he had a vague idea from where he traveled in his blood loss induced stupor. 

When he got to the door, he reeled back and slammed his elbow through the window, shattering it and allowing him to get his hand down to unlock it and let himself in. 

Thank everything out there that his delirious self knew where he was going, because upon entering and throwing the light on he was greeted with a vet clinic. He didn’t care as he ripped apart the buttons of his shirt, moving to the sink to wash the blood from his hands as best he could and rinse off the skin around the wound, wincing and hissing at even the slightest contact with it. 

Upon closer inspection, he could see that black chitin again had formed around the edges of the wound, but it was split and almost peeling from whatever kind of magic was imbued in Viggo’s knife. If he had cared enough, he could’ve brought it with him to figure out what it was supposed to do, but he didn’t really have time to contemplate that any further. 

He started going through the various drawers and cabinets, taking out various supplies and throwing them onto the table in the center of the room. Huffing and gritting his teeth, he undid his belt quickly, folded it in half, and shoved it between his teeth, preparing himself for what was about to come. He popped the lid on a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, almost yelping the second the liquid made contact with broken skin, but he bit down hard and hissed as he flushed the wound, pounding on the table from the intense burning that shot through him. 

Flames threatened to erupt from his throat, but he fought it back, lifting his left hand to feel at the center of his chest as a heat grew there, his fingers finding the brand burned into his skin there, the runic seal that bound his soul to his body. Meanwhile, his other hand searched the table to find the staple gun, and he removed his hand from the seal back to the stab wound to pinch it closed. This seemed like it would work, there appeared to be enough give to the skin despite its chitinous overgrowth that he could get an angle in to staple it closed. But there was only one way to find out, and, biting down on his belt, he drove a staple in and let out a sharp sound of pain as it went in. 

Yeah, that worked. 

Hissing, his breath came hot and labored, and following that, he proceeded to drive in two more staples, before practically collapsing onto the table. 

Several moments went by, and John slowly pushed himself up, replacing his belt despite the punctures in it from where his fangs briefly formed, and he did another quick rinse of the area with alcohol, before taking a square of gauze and ripping off some medical tape with his teeth to tape it over the wound. 

He sighed lowly, hands shaking where he put them down on the cold, stainless steel surface of the table, and as he lifted his gaze, he found himself making eye contact with one of the dogs in the holding cages that lined the walls. 

Slowly, he made his way over to it, inspecting the clipboard hung to the outside of the cage and noting that he was scheduled to be euthanized. 

“Miko…”

John made a sound from his throat, before turning back to the grey pitbull in question, slowly opening the cage after grabbing a leash off one of the hooks and clipping it to his collar. 

“It’s okay…” 

Miko curiously poked his head out, sniffing John’s hand and licking it briefly as he ran his fingers through the fur around his neck. 

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
